


Revenge of the Red Witch

by stormwreath



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Comic), Conan - Robert E Howard
Genre: Action/Adventure, Crossover, Drama, Gen, Swords and Sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-25
Updated: 2010-06-22
Packaged: 2017-10-09 17:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/89753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stormwreath/pseuds/stormwreath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An epic tale of swords and sorcery, as Willow and a barbarian warrior from the distant past travel to confront a wizard who has stolen something immensely valuable from her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Conan the Cimmerian is black haired and sullen-eyed; a thief, a reaver, a slayer, with gigantic melancholies and gigantic mirth, who came sword in hand to tread the jewelled thrones of the Earth under his sandaled feet.  
> Willow Rosenberg is a red-haired Jewish lesbian wiccan who thinks that eating a banana before lunch is an act of wild rebellion.  
> Together, they fight evil sorcery.
> 
> Warning: 1930s-style pulp swords and sorcery. Thews will be mighty, bosoms will heave, bodices may get ripped, and firm-jawed heroes will be saved from a Fate Worse Than Death by fair damsels. Or possibly the other way around.

The warrior urged his horse to a steady trot as he made his way down the woodland path. He sat comfortably in the saddle, apparently heedless to the dark shadows that lurked beneath the twisted boles of the trees; but in fact senses keener than those of a civilised man constantly scanned his surroundings for the first hint of danger. And so it was that he caught the distant hints of snapping branches and running feet. He checked the horse's pace and made sure his blade was loose in its scabbard. Then a woman's desperate scream, muffled by the distance, came to his ears; and ripping out a sulphurous curse he leaped from the saddle, looped his steed's reins around a convenient branch and plunged into the dense undergrowth.

The branches clawed at his face, but he pushed steadily through the thicket until it opened out into a natural clearing. The footsteps drew closer, and then the source of the scream he'd heard burst out into the daylight that shone filtered through the green leaves. She was young and slender, with hair of fiery red and expressive hazel eyes that now were filled with fear. Her dress of diaphanous green must once have been expensive, but now it was sadly torn by her headlong flight through the grasping forest. Behind her came her pursuers; two ragged men of the woods, keeping pace with her easily as they toyed with their prey.

She glanced back to judge her distance, and that incautious movement was almost her downfall. Her foot caught on a hidden root and sent her sprawling. With low guttural laughs they sprang forward; but then the warrior was between them and her, blue eyes blazing in anger beneath his shaggy mane of hair.

"Back, dogs! Back or by Crom I'll send you to hell!"

One of them snarled in anger and reached for his dagger; but his older comrade nudged him to silence.

"We have no quarrel with you, stranger. Leave the girl to us; surely she is nothing to you?"

His only answer was the ring of steel as the warrior drew his sword. The two hunters eyed their adversary with caution. They saw a huge man, iron-thewed yet light on his feet. He was dressed in practical homespun clothes, but the glint of steel shone at neck and cuffs. The sword in his firm right hand was of blued Kothian steel, honed to a fine edge. But there was one of him, and two of them, and numbers made them bold. Pulling out their wicked knives, they leaped forward.

With panther-like grace the big man leaped aside from their initial rush, and his blade swung around almost in passing and laid open the arm of the younger man. He yelped in pain and clutched at the wound, and in that moment the sword returned in a backhand blow and slashed through his neck. His head leaped from his shoulders in a welter of crimson gore, a look of surprise still fixed in its eyes. His companion choked off a curse and brought his own knife up in a cruel disembowelling blow; but it skidded off the mail beneath the warrior's tunic, and then the big man brought his heavy fist chopping down on the back of his neck. Dazed, he staggered forwards; and moments later his own head rested on the forest floor beside his collapsed body.

Grunting with satisfaction, the warrior cleaned off his blade on the dead man's clothing and replaced it in its sheath. He then turned to the girl who'd been the object of their fight. She was pale, faint freckles dusting her ivory skin, and the hand that took his as he helped her to her feet was small and soft. She had clearly never known hard labour in the fields or cowsheds, and while her dress might resemble the holiday best of a peasant woman in its cut and style, its dyes and material were far more splendid than such could ever hope to afford. He smiled to reassure her, but she shook off his grip and looked past his shoulder at the two dead men on the ground. He was surprised but pleased to see that she did not flinch nor show any signs of disgust or fear.

"Uh, thanks.You're a -- a pretty damn good fighter, mister. Thanks for your help. I'll, uh, just be on my way again now..."

"Wait, girl. Where do you think you're going, all alone in these woods?"

"I can take care of myself."

He did not speak, but raised a sceptical eyebrow and glanced over at the cooling corpses of the forest hunters.

"Well okay, so maybe I've been having a few problems lately. But I'll find a way to fix them and then... uh, in the meantime maybe I could tag along with you? If you don't mind?" She smiled hopefully, but then waved a small finger under his nose. "But no funny business!"

His sapphire eyes grew scornful. "I am not one of these borderer scum who prey on helpless women. Girls come to my arms readily enough of their own will, and it is not my people's way to take what is not freely given."

"Wow. Uh, you're actually boasting that your particular culture has a rape taboo, as if it's something special here? That makes you different from other people? What the frilly heck kind of place is this?"

He looked confused. "These are the border forests between Ophir and Koth, a land notorious for reavers and bandits. No place to travel alone."

"Uh, aren't you travelling alone?"

He laughed uproariously at that. "They would not trouble a warrior such as me - or if they would, they soon learn their lesson, like these two dogs. But why were you out here, girl? Get separated from your entourage?"

"My whatirage? I'm, uh, a traveller. I got, uh, lost and separated from my friends. I'm not even sure where I am. Or who any of you people are."

"These scum were just borderers. Halfbreed bandits who prey on Kothian and Ophirean alike, and anyone else who blunders into their net. As for me, I am a travelling sell-sword, and my name is Conan, from Cimmeria."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr Conan. I'm Willow. From, uh, America."

"'America'? I've travelled far, and yet I've never heard of your home. Is it near?"

"No. Oh, no. It's a long, long, _long_ way from here. I'm not surprised you've never heard of it. How about you? Why are you here in these spooky woods?"

The Cimmerian was of barbarian heritage, unaccustomed to the polite dissimulation and tactful lies of the cities. He saw no reason to hide the truth.

"I came here to rob a wizard's tower, but I was unable to find a way through his sorcerous defences, curse him! So now I'm for Aquilonia, where they say Prince Almuric is recruiting an army."

He gradually became aware that his companion was glaring at him angrily, arms folded across her chest. The fact that she had to crane her neck back to even look him in the eyes somewhat reduced the threatening nature of her expression.

"So you think you can just rob a wizard, eh? Just like that? Just 'cause he's a wizard? That's anti-spellcaster discrimination. You... magiophobe!"

His chest rumbled with suppressed laughter. "I wanted to rob him because wizards always collect vast hoards of treasure in their secret chambers, gold which I fancy would do better in my own pouch. No other reason. What's it to you, little one? Are you a wizard too?"

"Yes! Or, well, a witch. And a very powerful one! Uh, usually." She suddenly looked worried. "You're absolutely sure you don't have anything against magic-using-people in general, then? You don't kill them on sight or anything?"

Now he did laugh, ignoring her angry scowl. "I've killed my fair share of sorcerors, but all of them deserved it. And all the witches I've met were ancient wrinkled crones. Are you sure you're not an enchantress instead?"

He said the last lightly, but suspicion crawled faintly into the back of his brain. Some of the witches he'd met - before sending their black souls screaming down to hell - had indeed been ancient; but to the eye their arts had made them seem young and fair, exactly like this maiden standing before him now.

"That's just... aargh!" She grimaced in frustration. "Look, perhaps you had better take me to this wizard's tower. Maybe he can help me."

Now the Cimmerian's suspicion blazed into full life. "Are you his minion then, after all? Takla Kron has a foul reputation, even in this forsaken land. Does he send you to gather his victims?"

"Victims? I've never heard of this Takla Kron in my life. Are you sure this isn't just more of your anti-magic prejudice coming out? What's this guy supposed to do that's so horrible anyway?"

"They say he sucks the lifeforce out of his victims and uses it to power his sorceries. He has lived for many centuries thus, vampire-like, preying on the surrounding people."

"Oh." The change that came over her face was immediate, and Conan, who had smiled at her anger before, now almost recoiled from the cold, angry passion that burned in her eyes. "And you were going to rob this wizard?"

"That's right."

"Not kill him?"

"Well..."

"Why the _hell_ not? Well if you won't I will, and you can come along and help if you like."

Such was the force of her emotions that he forgot his doubts and his laughter, and shrugged fatalistically. But he was a practical man all the same, not one to thrust his head into the lion's mouth without need.

"Do you really think you can kill this sorceror, little witch? Have you the power to do that, when you could not keep yourself safe even from these dogs?"

"Stop calling me 'little'! It's patronising and rude. As for my power, it's, uh, temporarily mislaid. But from what you said about this wizard, I think we should... ooh! Ooh, I've got an idea. Quick! Do you have a map of this region?" She hesitated. "Do you know what a map is?"

He rolled his eyes. "I may be a barbarian, but I'm not ignorant. I have served in a dozen armies, aye, and commanded them too in my time. But I have no map of these lands; I was following the sun in its course, and the moss on the trees, and the slope of the land." When he saw her disappointment, he grinned, and picked up a dead branch from the litter on the forest floor. "But if a map you need, a map you shall have."

With a few swift strokes, he sketched out an outline in the dirt; the hills, the road, the river. A dot marked the nearest town, Belkath, thirty leagues to the east. He pointed to a spot just off the road. "We're here." And then he thrust his stick down hard into the earth, as if stabbing the heart of a foe. "The castle of Takla Kron."

She smiled her thanks at him, then sat down cross-legged on the earth, tucking her skirt neatly beneath her, heedless of the dirt. She closed her eyes, hands on her knees lying palm-upwards, and seemed deep in concentration for a moment. Then the Cimmerian saw little twinkling lights fade slowly into view all around the crude map he'd drawn, shining like impossible fireflies, and he drew back a little instinctively from the witch as she worked her magic. But not so far that he could not see the bright light shining just where he'd indicated their own location. And as for the branch thrust into the ground...

"Crom!" The exclamation was wrung from him as the wood seemed to shine brighter than the sun, and just as Willow opened her eyes again it burst suddenly into flame that leaped up towards the encircling trees, burning so hotly that the branch was crumbling to ash visibly before his eyes. She watched it burn, then turned to him in triumph.

"I knew it! We've got to get to that tower. You can have the treasure, I'll get... what I need to get, and we'll kill the wicked wizard. Deal?" She stuck out her hand, and after a moment the Cimmerian took it and shook it.

"Deal. But tell me what the lights meant."

"Oh, just a locator spell. I set it to show the greatest concentrations of magical power in the neighbourhood."

Conan remembered the bright glowing light that marked their place. "It seems your own power is not entirely gone, then. But... your light next to the wizard's was like a star beside the noonday sun. How can you hope to conquer him?"

"Not all of that is his actual power. Uh, I hope. It's the magic that he's been feeding on. It won't help him." She set her face into a look of resolve. "So come on then. Uh, your map has no scale. How far is his tower?"

"Two days' ride, or slightly less."

"Ride?" She practically squeaked the word, and eyes that had shone undaunted at the thought of facing a centuries-old evil wizard now filled with terror. "You mean, on a horse?"


	2. Chapter 2

The girl's fear had not subsided by the time they regained the path and Conan had unknotted the reins. Eventually he sidestepped her reluctance through direct action: he simply gathered her up in one brawny arm and leaped into the saddle. Then, holding her in front of him, he turned his horse around and cantered back the way he had come. Apart from an initial yelp of protest, she made no attempt to struggle, but clung to the horse's mane with white knuckles.

Relax," he chuckled as his arm tightened around her to hold her steady. "You're safe with me." But the witch showed no signs of relaxing - nor, fortunately, of kicking and fighting; instead she sat there, rigid and upright, and kept her eyes locked firmly on the horse's neck as if to avoid looking at the trees that flickered past them so rapidly. She made no attempt to speak to him either, and soon Conan relaxed into the philosphical quiet that is the mark of the habitual wanderer.

They rode thus all through the day, with only a few brief stops to rest or to find water and tend to their needs. The barbarian had some dried meat in his saddlebags, which he shared with the witch; she grimaced as she bit into its tough leatheriness, but chewed and swallowed it down without protest. It was only as the setting sun cast their shadows long on the path before them that Conan began looking around him for a suitable place to camp for the night. He remembered a stream that crossed the road, but it was not until the dying sun had shed its blood over the western horizon and the dark shadows were filling the gaps between the trees that his horse's hooves splashed up water.

Checking the reins, he looked around him cautiously then urged his steed into a small clearing beside the stream. Satisfied, he dismounted lightly then swung his companion down to the ground. She staggered and clung to a tree for support, clearly unused to such exertions.

The Cimmerian grinned, then rummaged in his baggage for a metal pan. He handed it to the girl then told her to fill it with water, then see about collecting firewood for a campfire. He then turned back to his horse, only to realise that she hadn't set about her tasks, but was standing there glaring at him.

"Anything else, my lord?" The edge of sarcasm in her voice could have cut steel. "Ooh, would you like me to cook your dinner too while you relax?"

He shrugged. "Can you cook?"

"Aargh! For the Goddess's sake, what did your last slave die of?"

He looked more serious at that. "In Cimmeria, we do not keep slaves. It is only so-called civilised men who keep other men as animals. Among us, a war captive is either adopted honorably into the tribe, exchanged for ransom, or killed." He paused thoughtfully. "I was a slave myself once, as a youth. As soon as I reached my full strength I strangled the overseer with my own chains, hacked through them with his axe, and made my escape."

"Uh, yay for you?"

He realised she was still looking angry - and slightly incredulous - and added, "While you fetch wood and water, I must care for the horse; wipe him down, see that he is fed and watered and secured safely for the night. Then I'll hunt up some dinner for us. Does that satisfy your sense of fairness, my lady?"

"Uh, horse stuff. Looking after the horse. The big horse with huge scary yellow teeth. Yes, you do that; I'll uh, just go and get the water, 'kay?"

He carefully hid his smile as he pulled a small hatchet out of the saddlebag and gave it to her along with the pan. "Do you know how to use this?"

"Sure. Chopping firewood can't be too different to chopping demons' heads off, right?"

"And that's, uh, something you've done before?"

"Yup. Well, mostly it's my friend who does the axe work. I'm more about the spells. But I do know one side of an edged weapon from the other."

He shook his head, bemused once again by the contradictions his companion presented. But she set about her task willingly enough, despite struggling under the weight of the water in the full pan, and then began dragging dead branches into the clearing and hacking some of them into kindling. In the meantime he had finished taking care of the horse, and twisted its bridle between its forelegs as a hobble before setting it free to crop the short grass that grew along the riverbank. The saddle and baggage were piled neatly next to the growing heap of firewood, and Conan pulled out a sling.

"It's a shame I've no bow; I noticed deer tracks back up the road a way. Venison would have made a fine meal for us." He noticed the witch turn a little pale, then put her head down and concentrate on sending the wood she was chopping into hundreds of tiny splinters. "Once you have enough, get the fire lit and start the water on to heat. I'll go and see if I can find a rabbit or a pheasant."

She bit her lip, then tried to look brave. "I don't know much about p-preparing wild game. You'll have to do all that stuff."

"Of course." As he spoke he was pulling off his shirt and removing the heavy iron suit of mail he wore beneath it; the weight and noise would only hinder him as he went to hunt for prey. Stripped down to loincloth and sandles, his naturally pale skin tanned a deep brown by the warm southern sun, he looked like a ghost of the forest in the shadows. Willow looked up, saw his near-nakedness, blushed and ducked her head back down, concentrating on the pile of firewood she was putting together. He sighed.

"Not like that. Put the kindling on the ground first, then build up a cone of smaller twigs around it, like a tent. Only use the dry dead wood to start with. Once the fire's going well you can add the larger branches. Do you have a flint and steel?"

"A what? Oh, you mean like an early mediaeval version of a cigarette lighter. Nope. I don't smoke. Which, uh, probably sounds like a crazy thing for me to say since obviously I personally don't smoke, and you probably don't even have tobacco here yet. Unless you smoke weed. Hee! Which, uh, no, that would be a perfectly valid cultural choice for you to make if you did, so..."

Feeling slightly lost, Conan started rummaging in his bags again for his own tinderbox. But the witch interrupted him with a "Wait!", and when he turned back she was looking stubborn.

"I may not know anything about campfires or horses and hunting and all this Boy Scout stuff, but some things I can do." She glared fiercely at the heap of kindling and muttered something under her breath. The wood instantly burst into flame, completely of its own accord. The witch smiled triumphantly, then nervously looked up at the sky.

"It's not going to start raining now, is it?"

Conan mastered his own nerves at the sight of magic being used so blatantly in front of him. "I don't think so. It seems your spells are useful after all, girl. Can you draw the prey here too, to save me hunting for it?"

"No!" The look she gave him was so angry Conan was afraid for a moment that he too would burst into flame. "I'm sorry but no. Please don't ask me to do anything like that."

He shrugged, then picked up his sling and made his way into the forest without another word. Given her reaction to his question, it probably wouldn't be wise either to ask if she could use her magic to skin the animals he hoped to catch...

Game was plentiful in the shadowed woodlands, as animals came down to the stream to drink in the last twilight moments before the night. He even saw a stag bend its proud-antlered head to the water; but with just a sling he did not want to risk only wounding the animal, and held his fire. Soon after, though, a pair of coneys wandered incautiously past the covert where he lay hidden, and in moments they were stretched out bloody on the grass. He slung them over his shoulder then flitted like a shadow through the dark woodland back to the campsite.

One filling meal of rabbit stew later, Conan banked down the fire and took his blanket from the saddle-roll to made a bed for his companion. He himself sat down cross-legged on the other side of the fire and stared moodily into the red embers.

"Aren't you going to sleep?"

"There are bandits in the woods, as you yourself discovered. I must watch and wake."

"Bandits. Yikes. So, you weren't going to suggest we take turns watching? How will you manage tomorrow if you don't get any sleep?"

"I can doze in the saddle; I've done it before."

"Doesn't sound very practical to me. I've got a better idea. Where's that axe?" She rummaged around in the darkness until she found it stuck into a treestump, and handed it to him imperiously. "Cut me four branches, as straight as possible, about the length of your arm. They must be living wood, and leave the leaves on. Leave the leaves. Heh. So, go on! Shoo!"

Somewhat taken aback, Conan took the axe and walked off towards the edge of the clearing, managing to refrain from asking the witch what her own last slave died of. He suspected he wouldn't like the answer.

He returned to find his companion staring into the fire, a scowl of concentration on his face. She smiled up at him briefly as he returned, then stood.

"I think I've worked out the best spell to use. It's an adaptation of a Calatrian warding enchantment. If anyone with hostile intent approaches within a hundred yards, it'll make a noise like sixty-four crying babies all at once. Which should, uh, scare off just about anything, and will certainly wake both of us up. So unless that happens -and let's hope it doesn't, 'cause seriously? - we can both get to sleep."

And without another word she walked off to the edge of the campsite, looking back over her shoulder in clear expectation that the Cimmerian would follow. When he did she gestured for him to thrust the branch upright into the earth, then closed her eyes and began chanting. Green fire played over the leaves still attached to the stem, then seemed to soak into the wood and vanish from sight. Conan felt the hairs on his arms stand up, and fought to control his superstitious reaction. As magic went, this spell seemed harmless enough, even beneficial; but the barbarian was not one to put his trust in sorcery. Especially when it came to sleeping under its supposed protection; he preferred the feel of good, honest steel in his hand. A man could rely on that, when all else failed.

As he followed Willow from corner to corner of their campsite and they repeated the ritual, Conan pondered the wisdom of his actions. In the dark of the woods, getting involved in a battle between two sorcerors seemed more and more like foolishness to him. Mere mortals were often the unregarded victims in such a war of powers. Certainly this girl seemed pleasant enough now - if somewhat peculiar in her habits and speech - but she was a witch all the same. Who knew what she would be like if she reclaimed her full powers? Perhaps Conan was helping to create an even worse threat to the people of the world.

Perhaps it would be wisdom for him to slip away in the darkness, ride his horse hard through the night, be far away from here come morning. Let the two magicians fight their battle without him, and devils take them both. Perhaps that would be best.

Conan shook his head angrily. Perhaps it would; but for all his rough manners the Cimmerian had a certain barbaric code of chivalry. Having once taken this woman under his protection, he could not abandon her to her fate alone in the forest. He would stay; but he would watch her carefully, trusting her as little as the snake-charmers of Vendhya trust the hooded cobras that nestle in their baskets.

Oblivious to his thoughts, Willow smiled at him, her enchantment complete. She bade him good-night before settling down again in her blankets. In the black sky above, a sickle moon crept softly into the sky and shed wan silver light over the stillness of their campsite.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun rose over the forest with the promise of a fresh morning, and Conan arose from sleep to instant wakefulness, after the habit of his people. Willow was less fortunate. By the Cimmerian's standards she was soft and city-bred, and wholly unused to riding. So now, the morning after her first day on horseback, every muscle in her legs screamed out in pain. There were tears in her eyes as she struggled to her feet and tottered down to the stream, and when she returned she stammered out to Conan that maybe he should go on without her.

That was of course exactly what he'd thought himself the previous night, and he felt a flare of guilt as now the words came from her own mouth. He gruffly told her not to be silly, and promised her that her muscles would soon harden with the exercise; but when he saddled the horse he took the blanket and folded it over the beast's neck to provide a little extra padding for his passenger.

And so they began their second day's journey together. Conan could practically hear the girl gritting her teeth to keep from whimpering, so he kept the horse's pace easy as the sun climbed higher in the sky. Their path wound through the forest, gradually rising higher as they climbed towards the pass that led to Koth. Every so often there came a gap in the trees, and in the distance Conan could see their objective gradually coming clearer into view. Around noon he checked the horse, helped his passenger to dismount to stretch her legs, and then took her up a raised bank of rock that gave a good view over the surrounding trees.

"There it lies, girl. The tower of Takla Kron."

"Eww. It doesn't look much like a wizard's castle. I was expecting - I dunno, tall towers and banners and maybe an imprisoned princess looking out of a high window?"

In truth the keep was low and ugly, squatting like a black toad on a rock that raised it above the forest canopy. Beautiful it might not be, but the Cimmerian's war-practiced eyes could tell it was strongly built. Entire armies could break upon it and fall back - and that paid no account to the wizard's sorcerous defences, which he already knew were far stronger than the merely mundane ones. As they set off again, Conan began describing to the witch what barriers he had already encountered; which he had penetrated and which finally defeated him. She listened, and he could almost see the cogs of her brain whirling round as she planned her strategy.

But as they neared the place where Conan knew they must forsake the road and head directly into the woods towards the castle, he suddenly reined back the horse and muttered a savage curse. His sword was straightaway in his hand, and he looked around himself keen-eyed for any sign of the danger that might lurk in the surrounding trees. But no sound or sight of peril met his senses, and so he slowly moved towards the scene of carnage that had triggered his reaction.

There was a cart; that was the first thing that met the eyes. It was overturned, its cargo of crates and bales scattered around the path. A horse lay dead in the traces, a cloud of flies buzzing around its corpse in the warm afternoon sun. And scattered around the wreckage lay the small, tumbled bundles of rags that could only be human bodies. Their blood still lay red on the ground around them, and the signs told Conan that their death could not have been more than an hour gone.

He leaped from the saddle, sword still in hand. Fighting from horseback might give him the edge if the killers should return, but he had his companion to think about. Holding her in front of him as he fought would only hinder his movements; dropping her from the horse would be unthinkable. Besides, if he was attacked on foot she could ride the steed to safety. So with a muttered "Stay here" he prowled forward towards the battlesite.

And then there was a thud and a muffled cry of pain as Willow half-slid, half-fell off the horse, and without another word she was running past him towards the closest of the fallen victims. He cursed her for her foolish impulsiveness, but she merely glared at him wordlessly then knelt at the man's head, placing her hand on throat and chest, searching for signs of any life that might still linger. There were none. Conan, veteran of a hundred battlefields, could have told her that already, but she was determined to check for herself. Shrugging to himself - and secretly impressed by her determination - the Cimmerian turned his mind to other matters: the source of the attack.

Carefully he quartered the ground, studying the tracks on the blood-soaked earth, the small indications of the tragedy that had happened here. To his wilderness-bred eyes the picture was clear enough; and yet he frowned in sullen anger, because what he saw made no sense. He continued his search, moving out in a circle around the clearing, hoping to find evidence to prove his first impression false.

A low moan of pain brought his attention swiftly back to his companion. The witch now knelt beside a young man whose body was half-hidden under the upturned cart, and as Conan watched his eyes fluttered open and he tried to lift his head, only to fall back with a second groan of agony. So there was a survivor after all...

But not for long. Conan saw the wound in his abdomen, the terrible bloody slash that had torn through clothing and flesh alike and laid bare the glistening coils of his bowels, and knew that only a lingering painful death awaited him. The only mercy a friend could offer now was a swift knife to the throat and an quick end to his suffering, and he was already pulling out his dagger as he stepped forward. But before he could act Willow had placed her hand over the man's stomach, and a warm rich light shone out from her flesh and seemed to wash gently over him. The young man trembled as life and awareness returned to his eyes - but with it came fear and urgency, and a desperate question.

"Adala! Where's Adala, is she--?"

The witch seemed to be pouring all her strength into the spell, and had none left over to speak; but she met Conan's eyes briefly with a bleak look on her face. The Cimmerian squatted down beside the pair and shook his head sympathetically.

"I'm sorry, lad. You're the only one left living."

"No..." He groaned and fell back, defeat etched into every line of his body, and for a moment Conan was sure he was gone. But then his eyes opened again and he gripped the Cimmerian's arm with urgent strength, gasping out a warning.

"Came out of nowhere... so much blood... couldn't fight, couldn't...I tried, but... that noise...silver bells, and blood... So much blood..."

His final word was choked out, ending in a coughing rattle, and before his limp hand had even fallen away from the Cimmerian's arm Conan knew he was dead. But then the white light that still glowed from the witch's hand and linked her to the dead man's body seemed to flare up then turn cold and livid, and she snatched her hand back as if it had suddenly been dipped in acid.

So abrupt was her motion that she tumbled backwards to the ground, and she lay there scrubbing her hand repeatedly against the grass, back and forth, back and forth. Her eyes when she looked at the Cimmerian were two black holes in the grey-white oval of her face, and she tried to stammer out some words - then barely managed to turn away from him before she was vomiting the remains of her lunch onto the ground. As she knelt there, supporting her weight on her arms and heaving her stomach out, Conan prudently decided it would be an opportune moment to go and recapture his horse.

When he returned, he silently offered her the water bottle he'd brought from the horse's saddle. She gave a watery smile of thanks that didn't reach her eyes before taking a long mouthful. Her expression was bitter.

"So I screwed up again. I couldn't even save him, how can I expect to be any help against this wizard?"

Conan had secretly been wondering the same thing, but he decided it would be wise to hide his doubts. Instead he said mildly, "His wound was already fatal. It seems you took away his pain before the end, at least."

"Wow. Yay me. I could have healed him, you know? Before I came here, when I still had all my powers, I could have just, uh, said the words and he'd be alive now, he'd be healthy, he'd be all right but now he's dead and I might as well have killed him myself. 'cause I--"

"You didn't kill him." The Cimmerian spoke sharply, hoping to head off the imminent emotional meltdown before he was left with a helplessly sobbing woman on his hands. "You didn't kill him, but I know what did."

She blinked up at him. "I assumed the bandits--?"

"I thought so too at first. I was wrong. Come and see."

He gestured to her to follow, and curiosity warred with self-recrimination in her face for a moment before she set her mouth in a determined line and stood up, all business once again. Hiding his relief, Conan led her to a patch where the ground had been softened by the spilled blood, and still showed the tracks clearly.

"It's a footprint. So - wait a minute. It's a _bare_ footprint. Whoever did this didn't even have shoes?"

"Look again." When he saw her puzzled expression he set his own booted foot down beside the print as comparison. Conan was no small man, but the bare footprint was longer than his own. Longer and yet thinner, almost spindly. As light dawned in the witch's eyes Conan pointed out to her the small extra sign that was clear only to an experienced tracker - the small dimples in the ground just ahead of the toes that marked the indentation of claws.

"They were killed by demons?"

"One demon, as I mark the signs. Just one. It must have been moving quickly; it seemed to dance from one to the other and slay them before any of them could even move. Did you notice, only two of them even had time to draw their swords?"

"No. Uh, gulp? Big gulp. If we're fighting some super-fast demon then... oh Goddess. I wish Buffy were here."

"Buffy is one of your fellow witches?"

"What? No! No, she's - uh, it would take too long to explain. But listen. Do you think the demon has anything to do with the wizard we're going to kill?"

The Cimmerian shrugged. "Who else in this benighted forest would be summoning demons?"

"Right. Yes, good point. So, uh, I guess we probably will meet it, which means I'll have to think of a spell to slow it down. Then you can do your slicy-dicey stuff with your sword. Right. I can do that."

"Are you sure?" The Cimmerian couldn't quite hide his scepticism. "Your powers seem rather unreliable at the moment, and if we're going to confront the wizard in his lair, I need to be sure you're ready."

"Hey! Just you be ready yourself, mister, and don't worry about me. I may not be at my full strength but I've still got a few tricks up my sleeve!" She seemed to hesitate a moment. "Okay, so I couldn't --- But healing magic, not easy! There's not one witch in a hundred could even have done what I managed to do before he, he died, and when I get my powers back, I'll--"

"You've said that before, that your powers are gone. What happened to you? Why do you think taking on this wizard will help you get them back?"

"That's private."

"Damn it, girl, this is not the time for secrets! If we're going to face an evil sorceror and his demon minions, I need to know who will be standing at my back. Do you understand that? I must be able to trust you!"

She seemed to be about to snap back an angry response; then swallowed it and sighed heavily. "Maybe you're right. Okay, but it's kinda embarrassing. I came here looking for, well, someone to teach me certain magic spells that I'd heard people in your dimens-uh, people in your _country_ know. But as soon as I arrived, I fell straight into the simplest trap, like some dumb magical newbie. It was a spell, and it sucked away most of my power before I could break the link and get free of it. So now I've got all the words in my head, but I haven't got the power to use hardly any of them."

"And you think the wizard did this?"

"I know he did. I cast that locator spell last night, remember? He's got my power, and he's - eww - probably feeding off it. Like some big creepy spider, sitting in the middle of his web, sucking the life out of this whole country. So we need to kill him, before he does it to any other witch who comes along."

"And you think you can manage that?"

"With the help of you and that big shiny sword, sure." She tapped the side of her head. "It's all in here. The only problem is working out which of the spells I know I still have the mojo to cast... but since we know what we're up against now, I can start the prep work straight away. One spell for slowing down superfast monsters coming up."

She smiled at him. "Then the rest is up to you."


	4. Chapter 4

The horse had been left back aways, where hopefully it would be safe. Conan had packed light, the rucksack on his back mostly empty; but a coil of rope was slung over his shoulder and various other useful supplies secreted about his person. The witch had a small bag full of oddments she'd collected in the forest, leaves and twigs and smooth round pebbles. It seemed mere junk to the Cimmerian, but she had selected each piece as carefully as a warrior might pick out his weapons -- and in her hands, they might prove as deadly as any weapon.

They were ready.

He checked the balance of the sword at his belt as he strode forward, the witch at his heels. Just a short step further through the forest and they would come to the wizard's tower. Conan pushed aside the bushes...  
and saw his horse standing there placidly cropping the grass. He cursed sulphurously.

"Uh, how did that get here?"

"It didn't. We've been turned around." He crouched to study their tracks, looking for broken stems of grass, the disturbed vegetation. "We've walked in a circle."

"How do you-- never mind. So, some kind of mind-controlly concealment spell, you think?"

The Cimmerian shivered involuntarily. "Curse all wizards and their cowardly ways!" Willow cleared her throat meaningfully, but he continued. "Afraid to face their opponents in honest battle, they hide behind spells. Can you break this enchantment, lay bare his lair?"

"Uh, probably. But it would use up a lot of my power, and I'd rather, y'know, save that for the actual battle. Not got too much to spare right now. But you didn't mention this before. You said you got right through to the base of the cliff, you didn't mention this barrier. Is it new? Does he know we're coming?"

"Crom! That's not a reassuring idea."

Willow smiled apologetically, then frowned in thought. "Maybe it just didn't affect you before. Did you - were you doing anything differently this time around? You don't have any magic charms or amulets you were wearing before, or anything? Did you go by a different route?"

"Nothing like that. In fact I was watching my steps carefully just now, looking out for the landmarks I remembered to make sure I followed the same path."

"And you weren't before? Looking where you were going, I mean?"

The Cimmerian grinned. "It was pitch dark beneath the trees, the best time for thieves to be abroad. I used my sense of direction, not my eyes."

The witch bit her lip thoughtfully - then suddenly her face was lit by a huge grin. She turned until she was facing the direction they'd just come back from... then closed her eyes and covered them with her hand. She walked confidently forward, a hand stretched in front of her - then gave an 'ow' of pain as her head hit a low-hanging branch. Conan did his best to smother a chuckle, but she just lifted her hand higher and moved forward rather more cautiously.

A few minutes later, he heard her voice shouting his name, followed by "What are you waiting for? Just keep your eyes closed!" He shrugged, but did as she instructed. After pushing his way through the undergrowth, he felt the sun on his face and opened his eyes again. The witch was sitting on a rock at the edge of the wood, grinning at him.

"See? Just an illusion affecting your eyesight. Trust your instincts instead and you don't even know it's there. I think that's one point to us." She jumped off her perch and looked north, where the great grey crag of rock loomed up in front of them. This close, the wizard's tower itself was hidden from them by the angle. Between their position and the base of the hill the ground sloped gently downwards to form a shallow bowl-shaped depression where no trees grew.

"So, I take it that's the next barrier?" She pointed to the innocuous-looking valley.

"That's right. The first of his real defenses. Fortunately I've encountered something like this before, away in the mountains of Vendhya to the east, so I recognised the signs straight away."

"The signs?"

Conan pointed to a small, huddled grey lump lying on the grass near the lip of the depression. "A dead rabbit. There are more like that, all around the edge; dead animals of all kinds."

"Okay, eww." The witch had turned green with nausea, but she also looked angry. "It's irresponsible, is what it is, setting up those kind of defenses. You can't just go around killing things all willy-nilly, it's... it's evil. Which, yeah, obvious since we already know he's evil, but he's got to pay for this!"

"For killing rabbits?"

"Among other things. *Ahem*. So, then, mister, how did you get across?"

Conan pointed across the valley. "See that outcrop there? If we can reach it, we climb up and we'll be on the same level as we are here. Above the miasma that kills these creatures."

"So it's just a heavier-than-air poison gas, huh? How do you know it's that and not a magical forcefield of death or something?"

"No birds."

"Hmm?"

"There are dead animals, but no dead birds. Whatever it is that kills, it only affects those things that walk on the earth."

"So, we just hold our breath, huh? It's a long way to walk."

"Here." He pulled a strip of cloth out of his pack, torn from an old shirt, and handed it to her. "Tie it round your mouth and nose." He brought out a second strip for himself, then watched as the witch took their waterbottle and soaked the cloth before tying it around her face. She seemed to know what she was doing, so he imitated her.

"Hold my arm." Then standing on the rim of the depression, he took several deep breaths, filling his lungs - then with a nod to his companion, set off down the slope.

It was easy at first. He matched his pace to his companion's shorter legs, but forged steadily forward. The sky looked no different; the sun shone as brightly, the grass underfoot looked as green. There was only a faint taste to the air that made his lips pucker, his eyes water a little.

They walked on. The pressure in his chest, behind his throat, was growing worse, but he ignored it. The rock wall in front of them was getting closer.

But not close enough. He kept his pace steady, step after step, fighting the urge to break into a run that would only use up all the air in his lungs faster. His chest burned like fire. The urge to take a breath was overwhelming.

Maybe it wouldn't hurt. The cloth over his mouth would protect him; maybe. Or maybe not. He'd done this before, he could do it again, fight through the pain by sheer willpower, and...

The girl at his side suddenly clutched desperately at his arm as her foot hit something half-buried in the grass. It gleamed white as it rolled away: an animal skull. She flailed for balance, landed hard against his body...

...and gasped in an involuntary deep gulp of air as she was winded by the impact.

Instantly she started coughing, a violent hacking, choking noise, her hands around her throat, her face red, her eyes streaming tears. She reeled back and would have fallen had Conan not grabbed her around the waist. Her eyes above the scarf were panicky, and the Cimmerian did not hesitate. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder, then set his face towards the rock wall and began running.

His lungs were screaming in his chest. His eyesight was turning dim, his head felt on fire. Each footstep drove agony through him. When he reached the base of the outcropping he barely retained the reason to know where he was, but some instinct prompted him to throw the girl up onto the top, then scramble up behind her. Then he sank to his hands and knees and breathed deeply, not caring any more if the air would kill him or not.

It didn't. They were safe.

Or at least he was. He turned to his companion, as she lay there where he'd tossed her. She was bruised and bloodied and her skin looked grey, but her eyes were open and she was still breathing. An ugly tortured sound, but breathing nonetheless. Her gaze met his and she even quirked a small smile, before breaking into another fit of coughing.

"Tha-*koff*-thanks for saving *koff* my life. But couldn't *koffkoff* ya have been gentler about it?"

He smiled with relief to hear her lucid and able to communicate. "I'm sorry. Can you stand? Are you ready to go on?"

"Gimme a mo. *koff* Got any water left?" He handed her the bottle. She took a sip, started coughing halfway through and almost choked, but mastered herself and then took another gulp. Some of the colour was returning to her cheeks.

"Whew. I'm glad we won't have to do that again." The Cimmerian mused that they'd still have to return afterwards, but forebore from mentioning it. Instead he stood and studied the rock wall in front of him.

"Here's where we'll need your skills, girl. This is as far as I got myself."

"The sheer rock face. Huh. Didn't you realise you'd need to climb it? I mean, I'm not a mountaineer type person myself, but there look to be plenty of handholds."

"There seem to be, aye. And girl, I'm from Cimmeria. I was climbing mountains as steep as this one before I was eight summers old. But watch."

He jumped up, his hands and feet unerringly seeking the cracks in the cliff-face that would give him purchase - but met only solid rock, and slid off down again.

"See? Another of his tricks for the eyes. It may look like it's climbable, but that cliff's as smooth as polished marble behind the illusion. You'd need to be a lizard or a spider to climb this wall."

"I hope you're not expecting me to turn you into either of those, 'cause icky. Also difficult to carry clothes and weapons and stuff."

He shook his head. "Get this rope to the top and secure it, and I'll be able to climb up with no problems."

"Oh, that's easy enough. Heck, if I still had all my powers I could carry you. But as it is..."

She took the rope from the barbarian, slung it over her shoulder, and grinned at him....

...Then shot upwards into the air, flying as easily and gracefully as a swallow. A couple of minutes later the end of the rope came tumbling over the edge of the cliff towards him. Conan caught it, gave it a hefty tug, and then experimentally swung his whole weight against it. He trusted the witch, but it was his own life he was risking here.

The rope held, so he began walking up the face of the cliff, his iron-thewed arms bearing his weight as the rope creaked above him. But it held, and soon after he was swinging his body over the top of the cliff and looking about him.

The witch was slumped against the bole of a tree, the same one whose trunk the rope had been lashed around. She smiled at him wearily.

"Sorry. That kind of took more out of me than I'd expected, especially after the whole near-death experience just now. Mind if I rest for a bit?"

"Go ahead, we'll need to be ready for anything when we enter his tower. That was impressive stuff, girl. I've seen wizards fly before, but they used enchanted rugs or other sorcerous aids, not just their own strength of will."

"Flying carpets? Seriously? I'd love one of those. You could just lie back and relax as it wafted you to your destination."

He grinned. "Maybe we can steal one from the wizard."

"Good plan. So what sort of test do you think we'll face next?"

"I don't know. You wait here and rest, I'll scout on ahead."

Moving quietly as a ghost, the Cimmerian slipped through the small copse of trees that clung to the edge of the cliff. He dropped flat as he reached its boundary, inching forward to look what was beyond.

The black stone walls of the tower rose up in front of him, casting a shadow that darkened the air around. Leering gargoyle faces seemed to peer down from the battlements; they looked to be mere carved stone, but long experience and caution taught the Cimmerian to be wary of them all the same. The tower's gate was not in sight, but there was a pathway visible off to the right, winding around towards the top of the mound. Dark marble columns stood beside it at irregular intervals, each one marked with sorcerous runes.

He took in as much of the lay of the land as he could, judging distances and cover with an expert eye, then returned to his companion. She was still sat where he'd left her, but was now happily munching on an apple she'd acquired from somewhere. His stomach rumbled, loud enough for her to hear; and she suppressed a giggle then pointed upwards.

The tree she was sat under was an apple tree, and the apples were ripe. Conan reached up to pluck one for himself, then sat down next to her.

"Apparently even evil wizards have orchards. Who knew? So, what did you find?"

He described what he'd seen, and she nodded in agreement at his suspicion of the gargoyles. She frowned at his description of the path, though.

"So maybe there's an easy way up? Perhaps hidden by illusion from the bottom of the cliff. What do you think the columns do?"

"Nothing good, I wager."

"Maybe. Or, y'know, maybe they're just evil decorations. Like the gargoyles. Bought from an evil wizard home supplies depot."

"Er, right. Are you ready to go, or do you need more time?"

"Nope. Ready for action, mister wizard-slaying Tomb Raider guy. Except, y'know, without the Lara Croft style gravity-defying boobies. Unfortunately. And you have no idea what I'm talking about, and I should just shut up now. Come on."


	5. Chapter 5

They followed the trees around as far as they could, but soon only open ground separated them from the stone-lined path that, presumably, led to the gate. The terrain wasn't entirely smooth - there were occasional outcroppings of rock and patches of grass, but they would offer scant cover even to an experienced woodsman. But they had no other choice; so Conan judged his distances, then muttered "Wait here, I'll go first" to his companion. She looked unhappy about that, but Conan didn't wait for a reply before he set off at a low crouch across the darkened earth.

Maybe it was a flash of movement in his peripheral vision that alerted him, or perhaps it was just barbarian instinct; but a sudden sense of danger prompted him to throw himself flat on the ground, just as something fast-moving and hot disturbed the air right over his back and hit the soil behind him with a dull roar.

"Crom!" The earth was smouldering behind him, a heat haze hanging over the rocks. If that had hit him...! He looked up at the battlements, and saw one of the gargoyles he'd noted before was grinning straight at him. Then he saw its open mouth gaping wider, and with another curse he threw himself sideways just as a second fireball exploded in sheets of flame right where he'd been lying. He half-expected a third to cook him where he lay, but when it didn't come immediately he staggered up and ran full-tilt for the nearest cover. He threw himself flat behind the knee-high boulder - only just in time as another ball of fire splashed on the other side of the rock, filling his nostrils with the charred reek of burning. Two more followed, but then the bombardment ceased - presumably because he was no longer in sight.

He lay there, gasping for breath, shaken by the narrowness of his escape... though now he was trapped behind his scanty cover. At least the girl hadn't been with him; she would have...

She was walking across the ground towards him, casual as if she were a fine lady promenading down the Royal Mall in Tarantia city. He opened his mouth to scream at her for her insanity; but before he could draw breath she skipped nimbly to one side - and a crimson ball of energy shot past her to her left and crashed to earth behind her. She just kept on walking, and a few paces later jumped in the opposite direction; and again the fireball missed her by no more than a handsbreadth. Now she was closer he could see she was mouthing words; and just as he realised she was saying "Three... four..._five_!" she jumped again, and once more the sorcerous missile passed through the air where she'd been standing then, not where she was now. Then she flung herself on her belly beside him, and the next fireball slammed uselessly onto the other side of the rock they were now both sheltering behind.

She grinned at him, face flushed and a slightly wild light in her eyes. "Boy, that was kinda fun. Also scary, but I think our gargoyle friend up there isn't exactly the brightest bulb on the tree. Or maybe it's just an automatic spell, hard to tell."

"How did you know you'd be safe?"

"I was watching you, of course. I saw what happened, how it worked. Look for yourself!" And without another word she stretched up her hand, out of the cover of the rock, and began counting aloud. "One, two, three, four, five!" On five she pulled down her arm again, just as another fireball passed low overhead and crashed to the ground behind them. "See? It fires after every five seconds, regular as clockwork. Er, do you know what clockwork is? Regular as a, a regular thing, anyway."

He grinned, amused rather than offended. "I know what clockwork is. So we're safe as long as we dodge or duck every five seconds?"

"Yep. From the fireballs, at least. Dunno what other defences there might be."

"We'll face them when we come to them. Well then - let's go."

And so, both counting aloud and diving to the side every so often, as if playing a children's game - but one with deadly serious consequences for a mistake - they made their way across the open ground and around the curve in the walls to the shadow of the gate itself.

The path from the edge of the cliff ended in a broad patch of gravel in front of the gate, and Conan searched it briefly for tracks. He could see that someone - or something - had passed fairly recently, but no clearer details than that were available. Willow, meanwhile, was examining the closest of the rune-carved pillars that stood beside the path. The Cimmerian could now see that it was carved with some sort of snake motif as well as other, more blasphemous symbols, but declined to look any more closely. Such things were best left alone, in his experienced opinion: though perhaps his sorcerous companion could glean some sort of useful knowledge from it.

Instead, he turned to examine the gate itself. The entrance to the tower was a huge double door, looking solid and impenetrable. It was faced with bronze, cast into ornate shapes and patterns, and Conan shuddered as he saw once again the ophidian imagery, now larger than life before him. He recognised the shape of Set the Old Serpent, demon-god of benighted Stygia where passive, drug-stupefied slaves were sacrificed daily to the sinister temple pythons. Even the handle of the door was cast into the shape of a bronze snake, fanged head poised to strike, and Conan eyed it suspiciously. Legends whispered of such things, and--

Behind him his companion burst out laughing. "Oh, come _on_! That's even cheesier than anything Xander ever came up with when he ran D&amp;D for me, Jesse and Michael." And without another word of explanation, she stepped forward and grasped the door handle.

Conan tried to shout out a warning, but he was too late. The cold brass came to evil, writhing life, the head of a real serpent dripping poison from its all-too-real fangs, and his companion...

...was holding the snake safely by its neck, just behind the head and out of reach of its fangs. She'd grasped the shaft of the door handle, not its grip. Now she grinned, and yanked hard on the snake, pulling it away from the door. Her grin faded slightly as she had to lean back and even plant her foot against the bronze panels to get the leverage to pull, and the snake was whipping around fiercely. She looked over towards Conan. "Uh, a little help here, maybe?"

Stung into action, he drew his sword and brought it sweeping around in a flash of light. It severed the snake in two, and as the two halves convulsed and Willow dropped them to the ground, they turned back into hard, lifeless bronze again. She scrubbed the palms of her hands against her tattered skirt.

"So much for that. Hey, at least this wizard has a snake fetish instead of a spider fetish. That would have been extra-icky. And don't get me started on the phallic symbolism of all these snake carvings; definite over-compensation going on there, I think, hmm?"

As she spoke - and as Conan, listening, once again felt completely baffled as to what on Earth she was talking about - she was cautiously crouching down and peering through the hole where the snake-handle had previously gone into the door. She was careful never to bring her face too close to the metalwork. Then, she reached down and picked up the body-half of the severed serpent and poked the length of brass into the hole, again standing carefully to one side. She jiggled the metal bar around and up and down a few times, and then there was a *click* and the door swung open.

It moved silently, no creaking of hinges or tortured shriek of metal on stone, and revealed darkness behind it. Conan took a firmer grip of the sword still in his hand and stepped forward to confront whatever the shadows might hide.


	6. Chapter 6

They walked down the short stone corridor, Conan in the lead, sword drawn and eyes scanning for danger, his companion just behind him equally alert. Their footsteps rang loudly on the granite slabs of the floor. Ahead, the passageway opened up into a large chamber that seemed to take up most of the ground floor of the tower. Conan braced himself ready for attack, but none came. They seemed to be alone for the moment.

The room was dark, save for the shaft of light coming in from the door behind them, but the Cimmerian noticed blackened cressets on the walls which presumably could be lit were illumination needed. Two rows of pillars, once more emblazoned with the omnipresent serpent symbol of Set, held up the roof. The lines converged, drawing the eye towards a raised dias at the far end of the room. A throne was set there, made of some white material, perhaps ivory. It too was serpent-carved, with the hood of a cobra forming a canopy over the seat. The snake's eyes glittered redly in the dim light, and Conan felt a moment of fear - then chuckled as he recognised what he was seeing. Two rubies were set into the carving in place of eyes, and as his own vision adjusted to the dimness he saw other gems embedded in the carvings and reliefs on the throne. There was a fortune here alone, could he but pry those jewels loose of their settings - and assuming there were no sorcerous booby-traps set upon them to deter thieves. Which doubtless there were, but the Cimmerian was experienced in dealing with such things.

Still, first they had a wizard to kill. He was not here in his audience chamber, nor were there any guards or servants to be seen - though whether an immortal sorceror would even bother with human servitors was an open question. A brief search revealed a doorway in the opposite wall of the chamber, hidden behind a dusty crimson drape. Through the curtain was a winding staircase, built into the walls of the tower, curving both up and down.

"So, which way to see the wizard? The not-so-wonderful wizard of wherever-this-is?"

He considered his answer. "Down doubtless leads to sorcerous laboratories, dungeons full of alchemical creations and hideous cross-breeds of demons and helpless prisoners. He may be there with them, conducting his experiments."

Willow giggled. "You're serious, aren't you? You do this kind of thing for real, all the time?" She thought for a moment, brow knotted in concentration. "You may be right, but if he wanted an underground base why would he build a tower instead? I'm betting his secret chamber will be right at the top, under the roof. Wanna make a bet on it?"

Conan smiled and shook his head. "I'll trust you to understand how a sorceror would think. I have no experience in such. Up it is, then."

And so they climbed the stairs. They made a half-turn, and then another doorway gave onto a chamber. This too, like the one below it, took up the full breadth of the tower; but the roof was lower, and narrow windows on the east and west walls gave enough light to see by. The room appeared to be a storeroom of some kind, piled high with bales and boxes and chests. There was an odd, slightly sweet fragrance in the air, and Conan frowned as he tried to place it. Then he saw the tightly-bound iron chest at the side of the room, around which the scent hung thickest, and he shuddered as he suddenly recognised the odour of black lotus dust. The chest must be full of it, and he hastened his companion through the room and out into the clear air of the door on the opposite wall before the deadly drug could cloud their senses and send them into unwakening dreams of madness.

A second staircase continued to climb upwards, winding around to the second floor of the tower. This, to their surprise, was a comfortably-furnished living space, complete with a curtained-off sleeping area, a kitchen - with a fireplace, although it was cold and empty - a table and a bookshelf full of arcane tomes. Willow immediately went over to this and ran her hand along the spines of the volumes, then withdrew it reluctantly.

"No time now. But you can have the jewels, I'll take these. They might make all this worthwhile, y'know?"

Conan stirred uncomfortably. "I hope they'll be of use to you, but are you not worried about what such books might contain? This wizard is accursed, his sorceries foul and evil - I fear his spell-books might only corrupt and damn those who read them."

Willow rolled her eyes. "Please, not a total newbie here. No - wait, I'll be fair, you do have a point. Books of darkest magic can be incredibly dangerous and corrupting, kinda got experience of that actually. But I know what I can handle now. I am, you might say, intimate with what dark magic can do - and what it can only do if you let it." She took a deep breath, then looked up towards the ceiling. "This wizard up there, this Takla Kron. He's what happens if you give in, if you forget why you have the power and only remember what it can do. It - it might be a good thing for me to come face to face with him. Y'know? Another lesson." She shook herself. "And then we kill him."

Conan nodded grimly. "And then we kill him."

Up another staircase, and into another room. This was bare and empty, seemingly larger than the ones below it due to its uncluttered state. The floor was shining white marble, and as he looked more carefully Conan could see a delicately inlaid tracery of gold spidering out across the floor. He pointed it out to his companion, who frowned.

"Looks like magical symbols of some kind. This room must be where he does his serious spellcasting. Yes - look over there! An actual pentacle drawn permanently into the floor. He must summon a heck of a lot of demons here to need that. Hey, he should have come and lived on the Hellmouth, you could summon demons there by just poking your head out the door and waving. Or in some cases going down to Buffy's basement and saying 'Hi'."

"Is it safe?"

"Sure, none of the runes are active now. Just, maybe better not step on any of them, huh? Otherwise it might not be a bear you're eaten by."

So Conan set off across the room. Despite the witch's assurance, he still felt vaguely uneasy, and so his senses were hyper-alert for danger.

It probably saved his life.

There was the faintest of sounds, like silver bells tinkling on the hem of a dancer's garment. It rushed closer, louder, and Conan swung up his sword to parry just as a heavy weight slammed his sword down and fierce bright pain shot like flame up his arm. There was another silvery tinkling sound, and he gasped in shock as something hard and sharp struck his flank. His mail saved him from being gutted like a fish, but broken metal rings from his armour spilled out and down and rang on the floor in an off-key descant to the silver sound of bells.

He backed away, swinging his sword in wide arcs to fend off his unseen adversary. Behind him, he heard his companion mutter something unintelligible, and then he felt the crackle of magic in the air as she cast her spell like a net to ensnare their enemy. Of course, this must be the demon that slaughtered the merchant caravan, back down in the forest! It had come now to protect its master, but thanks to the witch's spell he--

Could do nothing. The spell did nothing; the demon was not slowed or handicapped at all! There was nothing to be seen - and then Willow shrieked in pain and Conan spun around to see her, white faced, cluching at her side where three long gashes scored deeply into her flesh. Blood was pouring out of them over her hand and staining the white marble floor crimson.

He leaped forward, swinging his sword, but met only empty air. The silver ringing came again, and this time Conan was sure it sounded like mocking laughter. It seemed to be coming from the very air about them; and then it was his own turn to gasp in pain as a needle-sharp edge slashed at his leg, only a frantic kick saving him from being hamstrung. His foot briefly contacted something solid with a thud, but only another tinkling silver giggle rewarded his efforts.

He backed away, determined to shield his companion's body with his own, still swinging his sword in blind, hopeless sweeps. But then he felt Willow's hand clinging to his arm, as she peered around his side and supported herself against him; and suddenly he felt her grip turn hard and cold as ice, and a numbness spread down his arm. He wheeled in shock, wary of treachery and betrayal, and felt his blood run colder than the chill in his arm as he met the witch's eyes.

They were black, black as the depths of interstellar night, and her voice was flat and lifeless and empty as she ground out a single word. Her hand, still clutched to her side, was now flung out in a wide circle, and her lifeblood spattered in a broad arc across the floor.

Except on one place. Here the blood droplets did not fall to the ground, but instead clung to something invisible, hovering there in mid-air. As the Cimmerian watched, the blood seemed to sizzle and spread out, sliding in a thin pinkish film across whatever it was they touched, coating it. Outlining it.

Conan gritted his teeth as the shape of his adversary was revealed to him, its form drawn in his companion's own blood. A demon it was indeed, taller than a man but far more spindly and gaunt, its face a nightmare out of the pits of hell. Its arms ended in long glittering claws, three of them to a hand, each longer than Conan's own forearm, and the noise as they clicked and clashed together made the sound of silver bells.

The demon was prowling around them in a circle, clearly toying with them. It started to drift closer, past the Cimmerian, towards his companion who had now slumped to the floor, her last reserves of strength drained by her spell. The monster moved slowly, almost theatrically, its high-stepping gait a parody of a man tip-toeing. It cocked its head to one side and raised its arm as if considering where best to strike Willow to prolong her agony further.

Then it keened in shock and horror and pain of its own as Conan's sword came down and sliced deeply into its arm. It turned, knowing itself revealed, and flung itself in berserk fury at the Cimmerian.

Now Conan was in a fight for his life, and against a foe far stronger than mortal. His blow would have severed a normal man's arm, but this was a waif of the Outer Dark, possessing inhuman reserves of strength and stamina. But the Cimmerian, honed by a lifetime of hard adventure, was no normal man either. Reflexes fast as a panther's, and the experience of armed combat with a thousand vanquished foes, kept him safely out of reach of the demon's claws now he could see them coming. Bit by bit his own swordblows ate away at the horror's monstrous vitality, scoring its body with a dozen wounds, any of which would have killed a human. It was moving slower now, its claw-slashes less precise and confident, but it was still strong and Conan himself was starting to tire. He backed up, watching for an opening, and the demon sprang forward with renewed confidence.

Then the Cimmerian stepped across one of the golden lines traced on the floor. It had no effect on him that he noticed - but the demon, lunging forward hungrily, seemed suddenly to recoil as if hitting a solid barrier. It was only for a moment, but the barbarian was ready. His sword carved around in a glittering circle, and bit deeply into the creature's neck. Halfway through it cut, and the monster glared at him and gnashed its teeth, still alive despite its head being half-severed. But then Conan gripped his sword-hilt in both hands and yanked sideways, and suddenly the resistance ended and his sword flew free. The demon's head rolled forwards to his feet, still working its mouth in helpless anger, but its body collapsed into a twitching heap. Slowly, ever so slowly, the fierce eyes dimmed in death.

But Conan ignored them, for he had turned back to help his companion. The witch was slumped forward on the marble floor, a pool of blood spreading warm and red around her, unmoving.


End file.
